


Details

by Fluencca



Category: White Collar
Genre: Bromance, Gen, Gen Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-26
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 23:23:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fluencca/pseuds/Fluencca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal is sent to work with Bank Fraud, which is less than happy to have him, and more than petty about it.</p><p>Also, the site is playing fast and loose with my warnings. Gen fic, no pairings, general audiences. Honest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt at The Collar Corner,  
> "Neal has an abusive handler, but thinks it's normal" 
> 
> I may have gone off script with this one a bit. But you know what they say, "there's no accounting for the ridiculous ways writers will interpret perfectly straightforward prompts."

Neal never thought could miss a Fed. But after a year of working with Peter, dealing with mortgage frauds, art-thefts, stakeouts, and really, lots and lots of _guns_ , he found himself turning to tell him something, or pulling out his phone to text him a pun, only to remember he was gone.

Or rather, Neal was gone. The Bank Fraud Department, which operated on the basement-minus-two level of the FBI building, was assigned Neal's help on a case they couldn't crack. Peter had warned him that it would be boring, but since it was technically a subsidiary wing of the White Collar Unit, he was obliged to let Neal work with Agent Naulings for the week.

"But they don't even need my help! I looked over the case files," Neal began, but Peter interrupted him almost immediately.

"What? How exactly did you see the case files? _I_ didn't even know until this morning. And it's Monday."

Neal shrugged and gave the area over Peter's right shoulder a deliberately shifty look. "I may… Or may not have," he quickly corrected, "had coffee with Hughes' assistant three days ago when the request came through. But that doesn't even matter now."

Peter waved for Neal to go ahead and share what does, pray tell, matter.

"What matters," Neal reasserted, "is that they're dealing with a thousand cases of cash missing from several ATMs in the city, but they haven't even vetted bank personnel yet. I'm telling you, Peter, this is just lazy police work." He sat back, a pleased smile on his face, as though really, what more was there to say?

"Neal, regardless of your truly sought-after critique of Agent Naulings' management skills, you still have to do it. Hughes made the call to offer them your assistance. Maybe it will earn you some good credit with the boys downstairs."

"Cute. But I'd rather cash out now and, you know, solve real crimes."

"It's just for a week, to see if you can help them get any leads on this theft-spree. No— no whining. Just grab your hat and report to Naulings downstairs, and I'll see you for lunch."

Neal grabbed his hat and with a mock-hurt expression, and backed out of Peter's office. "A year of devoted service, and I get traded like an unsigned Derek Jeter baseball card and a 'cowboy up' speech. It's like a dagger, Peter, a dagger."

"Yeah, I feel for you." He watched Neal head down the stairs, still facing him, shaking his head and holding his hat over his heart.

"And besides," Peter called after him, causing several of the agents below to glance his way, "when have I ever told you to cowboy up?"

~*~

Neal stepped off the elevator on basement-minus-two and had to fight the urge not back right up into it. The offices of the Bank Fraud Department were, basically, a basement. The air-conditioning tasted stale, and Neal could already feel the cough that would surely form by the end of the day. He wove his way through the bullpen throwing smiles and half-nods at the grim-faced agents he passed, just for good measure. A smile never actually _lost_ you points.

Except, apparently, with Agent C. Naulings. Neal rapped on his open door and was met with narrowed grey eyes, which quickly returned to the paperwork he was pursuing. He spoke without looking up again.

"You smile like that at me again and I will write you up, make no mistake. Down here we solve actual crimes, and we don't trust felons, no matter how smooth they imagine themselves to be. There's a code to the telephones, the copy-machine and the elevators. You will ask a senior agent if you need to use any of the above, for work purposes _only_."

Naulings paused for emphasis, and scribbled a note on the corner of a paper. It looked to Neal like the words, 'purposes only' in fancy script. The man was _doodling._ He took the opportunity to jump in. "And who are the senior agents on the floor?"

"Shut up. We are not friends and we are not peers, and you will address me as Agent Naulings or Sir." He scribbled his own name on the foot of the same paper. He wrote _Sir_ next to it. "Everyone who isn't you is a senior agent. Lunch is 40 minutes.

According to your release-agreement, which I have read and unlike Burke intend to follow, you are to work up to 12 hours a day, and if my team is putting in long-hours I expect you to do the same. Find Agent Roter. She will show you your workspace and your first assignment. I expect you to check in with me and report your progress every hour at five-past. Go," he finished, and pulled another file from the pile on his desk.

"Yes, Sir," Neal said with emphatic sincerity, in a tone which Peter, at least, would have recognized as facetious.

~*~

Neal pulled his hands out of his pockets, because his elbows wouldn't have cleared the doorway, otherwise. The room was small, filled with boxes, and it housed one desk and one metal folding chair. Already from the doorway he could feel that it wasn't connected to the AC, and the only ventilation was a narrow window near the ceiling, that opened to _jeez_ , the parking lot above them. "Cozy," he said, and Agent Roter scoffed behind him.

"You can call it cramped, it won't offend me. Apologies for the sad-looking office space, but this is the only area in the department that isn't being used right now. Well, if you can call this not being used." She gestured at the boxes piled against the wall to her right, and what looked like several heavy phonebooks on the desk.

"Those are the background information on each of the employees of each of the banks that was hit, bound by bank. Naulings wants you to cross reference and see if any of the employees share any characteristics, gyms, babysitters, you know."

Neal sighed deeply. Boring indeed. He turned to touch Roter's elbow just as she turned to leave the small office.

"Wait, aren't these files on a computer, anywhere? It would make the search a lot more efficient." He wore a reasonable smile.

Roter glanced behind her in the direction of Naulings, and lowered her voice. "Um, it probably would, yeah. But," she exhaled deeply. "Listen, he doesn't think you can be trusted with a computer, considering all the sensitive financial information we process down here. We tried to persuade him, but…" She shrugged apologetically. "Sorry. I really have to get back to work." She turned and left, keeping her eyes downcast as she passed Naulings office. Great. Even his agents didn't like him. This week was going to be _fun_.


	2. Chapter Two

He hit the first real snag at lunch. Everyone in the office left exactly at noon, but he had been held back until five past to give his progress report ("still reading through the first bank's information, _Sir_."). At 6 past there was no one to provide the elevator codes for him get out. The card-swipe on the stairwell didn't respond to his employee card, and Naulings had told him no, he's not Neal's babysitter, if he can't be prompt about lunch-time like the rest of his agents, then maybe he should bring a sandwich from home.

Neal thought of calling Peter down to collect him, humiliating as that would be, but there was no cell coverage at B-2 and the landlines were out of his reach.

He went to sit in his little room, hoping Peter would come for him when he didn't arrive upstairs for lunch. He finished almost half the volume on the first bank before everyone got back from lunch. By the end of the day he'd turned to Peter, or pulled out his phone to text him half a dozen times.

When he came to check in for the last time at five-oh-five, he'd been told that since he didn't report at Bank Fraud until ten am, and since he owed twelve hours, he'd be making them up tonight, so sit back down, there are two more banks to look through.

At ten-oh-five he'd been given leave to go home—or released, really, since he was not entrusted with the codes to get him out of the department—with instructions to report at the office at seven.

~*~

Over the next three days Neal learned every nuance of his release agreement. He learned it that first night, when he arrived home at close to eleven, tired, starving and sporting a fantastic headache from reading the background files. He ate and fell into bed only to awaken barely three hours later by the Marshals beating down his door, an indignant June behind them in a dressing robe, insisting someone call Agent Burke, there must be some mistake.

"Agent Burke isn't in charge of the parolee, right now. This is a standard part of the release agreement. Random checks of the domicile of the prisoner. I'm surprised you haven't had any before now." The Marshals were courteous enough, but Naulings, who stepped in behind them, was set to make a point.

He personally handcuffed Neal and ordered one of the agents to keep an eye on him, so that he wouldn't disrupt the search. Neal offered no resistance, and the Marshal only glanced at Neal's bare feet and silk pajamas and then wandered off. Naulings and the remaining agents then tore apart his rooms. Clothes were flung from drawers, suits thrown off their hangers, dishes dropped in piles onto the counters, books and canvases casually swept off their shelves and stands, and the bathroom, from what Neal could tell, was held upside down before being righted, like a snow globe.  

They left shortly after three, and June came again to his door, asking why on earth he hadn't called Peter.

"Agent Naulings is just being a classic Fed. Nothing he did was technically wrong, and Peter gets so much heat for being soft on me…" He looked at June with open honesty. "He'll feel he has to intervene, and he will, and it'll just make things worse for him. I'm lucky it's only for the next few days, anyway. I'll be fine."

June didn't fight him, though she looked unconvinced. "Well, I still reserve the right to call him if this gets worse."

She looked at the room behind him. "Will you be alright tonight? I'll send two of the girls up tomorrow to help you put things back in order."

Neal kissed her cheek. "Thanks June. You're amazing. Goodnight."

He closed the door behind her and looked wistfully at his tossed apartment, and particularly at his mattress lying halfway on the floor and upside down. There would be no more sleeping tonight. He began to straighten up.


	3. Chapter Three

The next day was another twelve-hour shift, and he was forced by his check-in schedule to eat at his desk. At least he had brought lunch with him. It did little to make him feel better. He was nauseous from too much coffee, and tired, exhausted, shivering despite the warm exhaust fumes that ventilated his office. He swallowed and blinked rapidly, trying to chase away the fatigue. By four his eyes were bloodshot and dry, and he was having a hard time focusing on the material before him. That was how he learned that the release agreement also allowed for drug testing. He was called to the center of the bullpen, and handed a cup.

"You're shifty and your eyes are bloodshot. Drug test, Caffrey."

"I had a long night, _Sir_. I'm sure you understand."

Naulings smiled, and although he was a head shorter than Neal, he suddenly loomed. "Are you saying you won't take the test? Because refusing to comply with a drug test can land you back in prison, Neal." He made the name feel dirty.  

"I'm sure you've been asked to handle your junk on demand, before. This won't be any different. Take the cup. Return it to me. Philip, accompany him."

The office was stunned silent. Neal burned with a thousand things to say, not able to say any of them, not daring to push this man where he technically had the backing of the FBI and DoJ, even if he was utterly vulgar about it.

Philip rose from his chair slowly, looking everywhere but at Neal as he took the cup from Naulings' outstretched hand. Most of the office, he noticed, was looking rather embarrassed and suddenly busy with minutiae. That only made it worse. He fixed his expression to something blank, and left to the Men's room, Philip following at a discreet distance. He peed in the cup.

~*~

By the end of that day he also learned that there were three sisters who worked in the three banks hit. Two of the sisters were programmers, one was a security guard. The ATM fraud was begging to happen. It took him two days to make the connection, working only with paper files, not nearly enough air and virtually no sleep. Just plain _lazy_.

He had reported to Naulings, and been told to quit making a mockery of the fine work of the department and to recheck his work, starting from scratch. If the connection was so simple he'd have seen it himself.

Neal, his face somber, apologized immediately. "I'm sorry for mocking your work. I would never intentionally insinuate that you missed a simple connection. Maybe you saw it and forgot?"

That earned him a first-hand seat to the reinterpretation of the Working Conditions clause. Apparently, he was to be assigned a workspace "delineated as his own and separate from the work space(s) of surrounding agents." With Peter that had meant he got a desk. Naulings' interpretation included phrases like "safety of others" and "keep your disruptive attitude to yourself". Neal was marched back to his office and told to get back to work and not dare open the door unless it was for his hourly check-in. Naulings slammed it as he left.

There was only an hour and a half left till the end of the day, but it was long enough for Neal. First he removed his jacket, and then loosened his tie, but he simply could not get enough air. The cough he thought he'd get from the stale air conditioner showed up, but it wasn't borne by a dry throat. The odious, hot air he was breathing from the parking lot made his lungs feel coated in grime. Not entirely sure he'd wake up, Neal decided to sleep away the rest of the hour before his next check-in. He wasn't really going to reread all those files, anyway.

At seven-oh-six he was released for the day, but had to wait patiently until one of the other agents was ready to leave, too. Three had offered to punch in the code for him, but were admonished with a "no, don't disrupt your work. Our guest is happy to wait, aren't you, Neal?"

"Delighted, Sir."

Neal then spent another half-hour watching Philip hastily wrap up his work, check in with Naulings, and gather his things.

"Sorry for the wait, Caffrey. I really did need to finish that report by today." He hid the keypad with his body, and punched in the code. The red light flashed. He tried again.

After the third time Neal took pity on him. "It's the four. It jams the first time you press it, so after you hit nine you have to press it once to release it, then again."

Philip stared at him, ramifications dawning. He turned and punched in the number like Neal recommended, but waited until the elevator doors closed.

Then Philip turned to look at Neal. "How?"

"It's what I do," Neal allowed with a small, pleased smile and a shrug.

"How long have you known the codes?"

"Lunch. Yesterday. It just seemed easier to play along with Naulings' rules."

The elevator stopped at B-1. Philip stepped out, but then turned back and held the doors. "Listen, man, I'm sorry about earlier. That wasn't…" he trailed off.

"Yeah. It's okay. Not your fault. Easier to play along, right?"

Philip winced. "Anyway, sorry. Have a good night, Caffrey. And get some rest—you look beat."

When Neal reached the lobby his phone buzzed with missed-call and text-message alerts, but his vision swam when he tried to read the messages. Never mind. Four missed calls from Peter.

He couldn't bear the thought of having to talk to anyone just then; his head hurt, his throat wouldn't clear no matter how many times he tried, and even blinking his eyes open seemed to take too much effort. And he definitely did not want to answer the question, "how was your day?"

He himself would like to forget today ever happened. He certainly didn't intend to share. Neal texted Peter a brief, _Hey, just saw you called, I'm beat. Talk later?_ and silenced his phone before Peter could text back.

~*~

Neal skipped dinner and went straight to bed—his wonderful, freshly made bed, _thank you June and Lily and Sandy R_.—but the week continued to be just as illuminating as his first two days with Bank Fraud had been.

Apparently, random domicile checks could happen two nights in a row. He could be ordered to carry a sterile cup on his person at all times and be called upon, even in the middle of the night, to provide a sample—including delivery to the Marshals' office at two in the morning (though, surprisingly, he also learned that he was entitled to reimbursement for any cabs taken after public transportation stopped running. He doubted Peter knew this; maybe he _hadn't_ read the release agreement).

There was an Extenuatory Clause which could turn 12 hour workdays into 18 hour workdays. Being offered the phone codes constituted a possible flight risk, of all things, and that meant an afternoon working handcuffed to his folding chair while Naulings "sorted it out". He was careful to slip the cuffs back on whenever he heard Naulings approach, once an hour at five past.

He learned that his food could be checked for contraband, and had dumped his spaghetti Bolognese, Tupperware and all, after Naulings had poked his finger through it, neat nail and flakey cuticle slopping it from side to side before determining that no, it didn't contain weapons, drugs, or stolen paintings. That night he left the office at one AM, then left home at two-thirty to drop off his urine sample, and again at six-thirty for a new day of work.

He was beyond exhausted. The fatigue felt like a physical weight. In his past life he'd been up sometimes for days, but there had been planning, excitement, people. Neal was about fifty percent sure that the dry cough he'd developed was psychosomatic; he couldn't speak more than three words in a row without interrupting himself with a dry hackle, his tired eyes watering and resisting the need to reopen. He wasn't sure he'd make it to his eight-oh-five check.

Luckily, he wouldn't need to. Half an hour after he arrived at work a probie from upstairs stepped off the elevator, and told Naulings that Hughes needed Neal.

Neal did not know how that conversation had gone, but when Naulings came into his room he was livid. The door slammed open and flew back toward his face. He knocked it away again. Neal looked up from the personnel files he was supposedly reviewing for the fourth time.

"Caffrey, go upstairs. Whatever you've done, it's being handled high. Report back to me when you're done. Needless to say this counts as your lunch break."

 _And yet he said it anyway_ , Neal thought as he jumped to his feet.

Mis _take_. He was happy leave the dungeons, sure, but he shouldn't have gotten up so quickly. His head pounded and his vision tunneled, though he tried to cover it by holding on to the desk as he moved around it.  


The probie tried not to notice, Naulings slammed the door behind him.

~*~

The elevator ride was long, and Neal loved long elevator rides. Between the awkward silence and the human need to fill it, he could usually get sterling information out of his co-travelers. Probie was no different.

"So." He waited. He coughed. He waited more. At the fifth floor he continued, "do you know what this is about?"

The probie jumped on the opportunity to say something, anything, as soon as Neal had finished coughing.

"No! I mean, fair warning, Agent Burke was pretty peeved this morning after he got a call from the Marshals. I mean, it's been going on all week but the call the morning seriously sent him over the _edge_. He was shouting so loud we had to move some witnesses to 22 to give their statements. It was unreal."

Neal was almost certain he was the only one who ever got Peter upset enough to scare innocent bystanders, but he honestly couldn't remember doing anything to set Peter off. He swallowed.

They stepped off the elevator and Neal felt surge of giddiness as he reached for the glass doors. His desk, the clean white light, the difference made by windows that actually cracked two inches toward the outdoors… It's how he imagined Disneyland felt to children. It made him grin and inhale, even as he told himself _straight face, keep a straight face_.

His smile faltered almost immediately. Peter was standing on the platform, apparently waiting for the probie to return. He didn't bother with pointing.

He caught Neal's eye and narrowed his own, and gestured sharply with his head toward his office.

"Good luck," the probie whispered, and pushed past Neal to get to his desk.

Neal rubbed Socrates' head for luck, and went to meet Peter.

"Close the door," Peter said when Neal entered the room, "and then please, have a seat," he added in a pleasant tone laced with trouble.

Neal gingerly took a seat, facing Peter. He stifled a cough.

"Hi, Neal." Sickeningly pleasant, tight smile, unflinching eye contact.

"Peter." Tentative, looking away, forcing himself to look back.

Peter leaned forward on his desk, and dropped the smile. "Neal, care to tell me why I got an angry call from the Chief Deputy US Marshals' office?"

Peter's suspicion, atop the exhaustion from the long days and sleepless "nights", was too much. Neal's frustration soared.

"You know what, I have no idea!" he tried to raise his voice, but couldn't, really. "I haven't done anything wrong, I've been too busy to _think_ about doing anything wrong! Check my tracking data if you don't trust me, busy doing nothing! You should just be thankful you haven't gotten an angry call from _me_!" He swallowed down the irritation in his throat.

Peter's frustration matched Neal's. He stood up and hit the desk. Neal jumped in his seat.

"Damn it, Neal, why do you think I'm pissed off? You think I'm too stupid to think of that for myself? You think I haven't been doing that for the last three days?" He grabbed a sheaf of stapled papers that was lying on his keyboard and threw it at Neal. "There's your tracking data. Fourteen hours in the office on Monday. Twelve on Tuesday. _Eighteen_   yesterday, with a bonus trip, at _three am_ , to the Marshals' office. Which isn't even to mention the rest of what's been going on!

"Why the hell _didn't_ I get an angry call from you?"  By the end Peter was leaning over the desk, pointing at Neal, a hand on his waist. He ran a hand over his face, and took a step back. "Well?"

Neal desperately tried to blame it on his exhaustion, but he had no idea what this conversation—what he in trouble?—was.

"Peter, I'm really not—" The end of the sentence turned into the cough he had been stifling, only now it was a fit. He tried to breathe through it, but somehow made it worse. He indicated to Peter with a finger he was fine, he'd be just a moment, but his eyes were tearing and he couldn’t stop coughing and Peter was offering him a bottle of water, but really, that was going to have to wait. Finally the coughing slowed, and Neal wiped his eyes.

"Whoa," he croaked, and took a sip of water. When he looked up again Peter was seated again, fixing him with an inscrutable look.

"And now you're sick. Seriously, Neal, what happened?"

Neal had no idea where to start, or what exactly Peter meant, really, since nothing had technically happened, per se. Instead he asked, "Why did the Marshals call you?"

"Because, and I quote, the Marshals' resources and manpower are not to be used for the pointless harassment of parolees. Receiving a second drug test in two days was the last straw.

"And I spoke to June this morning. They tossed your apartment? Twice? She said it looked like a localized tornado had hit by the time they were done. Neal, the Marshals are pissed and they want to know who to blame. You need to tell me everything that happened since Monday morning."

So Neal told him. Peter listened with growing anger.

"Did he say why he decided to check your apartment on Monday night?"

Neal shook his head once. "Nope. Just handcuffed me and ripped through the place. He even emptied my liquid soap onto the floor. It was a limited blend from Pungtud Island." He looked wistfully into the distance.

"This isn't a joke, Neal. He's not allowed to burst into your home without some kind of justifiable cause. Or subject you to drug tests, for that matter."

"Well, he'll say he had cause for that. The next day I _was_ pretty out of sorts after not sleeping the night before and sitting in that disgusting little room all day. He decided my being tired was a symptom of using. And the way he asked—I'm telling you, the man has no manners."

Peter noticed the involuntary shudder. "What did he say, exactly?"

"It's nothing, Peter. It was just crass. I'd rather not repeat it, frankly."

"Neal, I need to know everything," Peter said, and damned if he wasn't only one who could make Neal break off a stare.

"It was nothing, Peter," he said. "He called me out to the bullpen, asked for a urine sample, and made a comment about prison and handling my junk on demand." Neal fixed his gaze on Peter's tie, flitted his eyes to Peter and away again. Hearing it was bad enough, but to be forced to say the words felt like a mark of shame to his normally pristine language.

He risked looking back at Peter, who breathed deeply and closed his eyes as he spoke, like he was trying very hard to keep his voice calm. And steady. "He said that."

He shook his head and looked at Neal.

"Why didn't I get an angry call from you?" He sounded more sorry than angry this time. "Why didn't you say anything right then? Or call me after? Keeping you from lunch, handcuffing you to a chair, telling me you were out to lunch while you were closed you in a room with no ventilation? What made you think you needed to handle all of Naulings' crap alone? The Marshals weren't kidding. That's harassment, Neal."

"I would have called you, I was going to, but there's no reception down there, and considering Nauling's general attitude it just didn't seem wise to let on that I could use the office codes. And after, I was just so tired, Peter. I've been on four hours or less a night. And besides, I'm not so sure he did anything wrong. Well, wrong to me, but he was just being a handler."

Peter looked like he'd been hit in the gut. His head jerked and his mouth dropped open. "I know it's been a tough few days, but that's unfair, Neal. I've worked very hard to make sure—"

"God, no, Peter. No, that's not what I meant," Neal said sitting forward in his seat, his eyes wide. "Of course I don't think you're like Naulings. Half the time I consider you more a friend, than anything else. But that's the problem. I know you cut me slack, more than I deserve, I think I didn't realize how much. Naulings was just playing it by the book. Everything he did was in accordance with the release agreement. That's his… evil genius."

Peter shook his head as Neal spoke. "The release agreement is 'check all that apply', not 'all of the above'. There was never any reasonable suspicion of drugs, never a reason to keep you in the office for eighteen hours. Especially not once you solved the case on Tuesday. Don't look so surprised, I do still consider it my responsibility to keep tabs on you. And there was never a reason for Naulings to go out of his way to systematically try to humiliate you in front of co-workers." His tone softened. "I also consider you a friend. And friends ask for help."

Neal swallowed, and blinked away moisture in his eyes. If he wasn't so tired he wouldn't be so damned emotional! He would certainly never come close to tears at Peter calling him a friend. He already knew it, even if Peter hadn't ever said it in so many words. He did. But this was also… nice.

He plastered on the widest, most beatific smile he had, and congratulated himself that he pulled it off. "Hey, Peter? I need some help with something."

~*~

They were on their way to B-2 less than 2 minutes later. Peter walked with Neal back to his room to collect his hat and jacket. He gagged a little when he stepped in. "This is where they had you working for three days? No wonder I didn't see you when I came down. There is literally no oxygen in here. How are you still breathing?"

"Not very well," Neal said, and coughed.

"Point taken."

On their way to Naulings' office Peter asked Neal which agent had physically taken the urine sample from him. Neal nodded in the direction of Philip, but added in a whisper, "His name is Philip. But he was just s mortified as I was. He even apologi – ugh, I hate being hoarse, my voice is cracking like a bar-mitzvah boy's – apologized after. Nice guy."

Peter only nodded.

He didn't bother knocking on Nauling's door. He didn't bother with pleasantries, either. "How long did you think you could keep it up, Clarence?"

Neal perked up, just knowing the man's first name was _Clarence_.

"Peter." Naulings said, but looked at Neal.

"It's Agent Burke. I am still the Division Head."

Peter looked expectantly at the man sitting at the desk.

"Of course. Agent Burke. I'm afraid I'm not quite sure what you mean."

And Neal suddenly felt better than he had in days. He helped himself to a seat across from Naulings, and wore the expression he thought would annoy the man the most: contented superiority. He watched.

"You know exactly what I mean, and you need to stop playing games. The Marshals are pissed at the massive waste of resources this week, and now so are Hughes and _Bancroft_."

Nauling's paled.

"Yeah. This went all the way up and they're looking for someone to hold responsible.

"And I have no compunctions," a sweeping notion with his hand in front of Naulings' face, "about throwing you under the bus. You more than earned it."

"Agent Burke, I don't know what _lies_ this felon has been telling you, but I assure you, they're just that." His hands had been up as though to stave off an attack, but now he folded them neatly in his lap, and smiled sickly up at Peter.

"I did nothing that was not sanctioned by his release agreement, feel free to check for yourself."

"This _man_ ," Peter bit out, "has no humiliation clause in his work release agreement. And he has a hell of a lot more honor than you." Peter looked down at Naulings, and shook his head with pity. Then a small smile formed, just barely quirking the corners of his mouth.

"But don't you worry. I'll smooth things over with Hughes and Bancroft, and I'll make sure the Marshals don't dock the costs of man-hours and lab tests from your paycheck."

Naulings smiled smugly at Neal.

Neal smiled knowingly back. He trusted Peter was going somewhere with this.

"And in return, you're going to request a transfer to the Transportation Department. You will be allowed to maintain a job with the Bureau, and you'll be grateful to be driving evidence around the tri-state area."

"What on Earth makes you think I am going to put in that request? It's career suicide! I certainly will not do it to protect this one." This time he didn't even spare Neal a glance.

Peter's smile was no longer understated. It decorated his face. "Nope. You'll do it to protect yourself. Because if you don't, I will file a sexual harassment complaint on behalf of my CI. The ridiculously handsome, young consultant to whom you made the last inappropriate comment of your career."

Naulings sputtered.

Finally he spat out, "you can't! You won't! That's completely preposterous, and it'll never hold up!"

Peter put his hands in his pockets. "You made the comment. There are at least half a dozen witnesses.

"And don't forget, this man literally sold–" a discreet cough from Neal – "— _allegedly_ sold bogus Apple stocks to Microsoft CEOs. He won't have a problem selling the truth to the disciplinary committee."

Neal nodded from where he sat. It was true. It really would be cinch.

"You have till lunch tomorrow to submit your transfer request. After that you'll be facing the consequences."

He didn't wait for Naulings to reply, which didn't even seem like an option by the end; the man was glaring at a spot over Peter's shoulder, barely breathing. Peter turned and left. Neal rose from his chair and winked at Naulings, then followed Peter out of the room.

When they reached Philip's desk Peter stopped. "Agent Murray. Nauling's job might be clearing up in a few days. When it does, I want to see your name on the applicants' list. Do you understand?"

Philip looked from Peter to Neal, who tipped his head and smiled, and back to Peter. "I—yes, Sir, I mean, Agent Burke. Sir. Yes." Peter walked on, and Philip gave Neal an agonized look.

 _Don't worry, it was good_ , Neal mouthed at him, and again hurried to catch up with Peter.

Neal took great pleasure in punching in the elevator code.

To Neal's surprise, they didn't go up to 21. They stopped at the lobby to the FBI building.

"I told you I could do bad cop," Peter said.

"You know, you really can. You gave me chills."

Peter led the way outside. Neal grimaced; the bright light sent spots dancing before his eyes and he dug his palm against the bridge of his nose until it passed. Neal looked up to find Peter was _looking_ at him.

"Yeah. You need some rest. Go home, refresh your lungs with New York's patent smog, and come in tomorrow morning. We're starting a new case; I think you'll like it." Peter added the last part almost cryptically.

But Neal didn't take the bait. He had heard what Peter hadn't said. "I'm officially done with Bank Fraud?"

"I thought that went without saying."

Neal thought he might cry again, from sheer bliss. He quickly said, "Hey, did you know that reimbursement was a thing?"

Peter had his arm extended, waiting for a cab to notice him. "I paid pretty close attention in accounting school, so yes, I did know that."

"I meant for me. For taking cabs late, after work hours. How come I never got reimbursed?"

Peter's arm dropped and he turned to look incredulously at Neal. "Because whenever we work late I drive you." He shook his head. "Door to door," he muttered, and turned back to the street.

Oh, right. "But what about for my soap? That was a limited blend, and it was worth a lot. I think I should definitely get at least partial reimbur—"

"Neal," Peter interrupted him, "get in this cab," he grabbed Neal's arm, and guided him toward the taxi he had stopped. "Go home," he said over Neal's protestations over soap and aesthetically unaware agents. "And get some sleep. Please."

He tucked Neal into the cab almost gently, though, and closed the door without slamming it. "I'll see you tomorrow," he said slowly and loudly on the other side of the glass.

Neal thought he saw Peter shaking his head as the cab pulled away from the curb.

He smiled, this time only for himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to work on the premise that  
> a) not every single agent of Law Enforcement is a dirty jerk.  
> b) someone would notice if a temp-handler was cutting off fingers/water-boarding/feeding-rat-poison-to a CI in his or her care. 
> 
> Hope this works. 
> 
> As always, comments are more than welcome, including corrections.


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